


the sun and the moon

by starscry (orphan_account)



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, depictions of pain, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starscry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riario heals. Leonardo helps. </p><p>(a coda/canon divergence for the end of 2.08)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun and the moon

When they make it back to Amerigo’s ship, battered and bruised and tired enough to sleep for a decade or three, Leonardo barks orders at the crew like a general commanding troops; a makeshift bed is set up in one of the cabins for Riario, padded with raggy cloths and the rest of the dyed fabric they’d stolen from the Children of the Sun. The man gratefully sinks into it, wounded leg propped up on a soft pile of worn blankets, a gruesome reminder of the unfortunate events of the past several days. He passes out almost instantly, a mixture of physical and mental taxation and the overwhelming pain.

Leonardo pauses for a moment, considering waking the man up just long enough to clean the wound. Shaking his head, he decides against it, and instead grabs one of the sheets they’d used as parachutes, draping it over Riario and tucking it around his shoulders, knowing that the worst pain and the chills of the open ocean were yet to come.

-

Two days later, in the dead of the night, Leonardo awakens to the sound of cries coming from below the deck. He jolts up, going as fast as his legs will take him, and opens the door to reveal Riario, hands fisting the sheets and cheeks stained with tears. 

" _Please_ ," he whimpers, entire body wracked with shivers. He looks up, pleading gaze locking with Leonardo’s.

"What happened?" the artist asks gently, moving to kneel beside Riario.

"A swell must- must’ve hit the ship," the answer comes, ground out inbetween sobs. Leonardo can see that his leg had unintentionally fallen off the side of the makeshift bed and was now bent on the ground, twisting the older man’s frame in a painful way. Softly, the artist places his hands underneath the broken appendage, slowly lifting it back upon the heap of cushioning fabric. 

Riario grabs his hand, crying out in unbearable pain as his leg is moved. Leonardo knows that this is the worst time for him, knows that the other man has already spent hours awake, silent tears streaming down his face as he attempts to cope with the agony. The artist’s face contorts itself into a frown as his gaze sweeps over the body of the man before him, a man he’d known to be powerful, a formidable crusader who had seemed to have the hand of God on his side; he wonders what cruel god would do this to a man, torture him with this suffering and reduce him to a moaning and writhing frame, commanded only by the throes of suffering. 

He is shocked out of his momentary reverie when the other man’s hand clenches around his, a vice grip so strong Leonardo can feel his bones grate together. He sits down in the chair that rests next to the bed, quietly whispering _shhh, shh_ to Riario as he sobs pitifully, face turned toward the artist and pressed into sheets wetted by tears. Leonardo reaches his free hand to the other man’s face, running a thumb softly, comfortingly over his cheek, continuing his quiet shushing until the wails die down. He moves his hand to wipe some of the fever sweat from Riario’s forehead, brushing his hair out of the way gently and thumbing some of the man’s tears away. 

Riario looks at him with tired eyes, the soft brown blurred by pain, before slowly drifting off to sleep. His grip on Leonardo’s hand slackens, but the artist keeps their fingers interlocked. He decides to sleep in the small cabin for the night, telling himself that it’s because he wants to be there in case anything happens to Riario again. Cushioning his head on his bicep. He slowly falls asleep.

When Leonardo awakes to the rising of the sun accompanied by the sounds of the crew’s rising, he glances over at Riario, finding the man contentedly asleep; when Leonardo awakes, their fingers are still laced together.

-

The following weeks pass more smoothly than the second day had. When not taking care of duties aboard the ship or attending his friends, Leonardo spends his free time with Riario; Nico visits in his own time, and Zo stays away from the man altogether. The two sit in mutual silence, the artist using the quiet time to explore his mind and create new works in his battered sketchbook, and the Count quietly praying or watching Leonardo.

As the only one on the ship who knew enough to do so, Leo aided Riario in caring for his leg as it healed. He washed the wound several times a day with salt water to ward off infection, not enjoying the pain it put the other man in as the salt stung the flesh where his leg had split open. The artist beomes the doctor, nursing Riario through long days of agony, keeping the leg splinted, and hoping that it heals well enough with the limited supplies on hand and the amount of medical knowledge he has; _not enough,_ he thinks, grimly, to himself. 

"I won’t be able to walk normally again, will I?" Riario asks one day.

With a heavy sigh, Leonardo admits, “No, probably not. I was in a hurry when I set the bone, and I’m no medical professional, despite my studies. I am sorry.” 

The other man smiles bleakly. “It’s only fitting, I suppose,” he murmurs. “The Lord’s retribution for all of the harrowing things I’ve done in His name.”

"It’s hardly ‘retribution’," Leonardo retorts. "If anything, it’s an opportunity to become stronger. Courage in the face of adversity."

"I am glad you have such faith in me, _artista_."

-

Leonardo begins to steal moments when Riario is asleep, preserving the other man in his sketchbook. He explores the Count in his art, noting the way his high cheekbones shadow his face, the soft curl to his hair, the way his beard had grown longer over the past few days despite the fact that he’d roughly trimmed it not too long ago. The artist notices new things each time he looks; the light dusting of freckles that now cross the bridge of Riario’s nose, a remnant of the months spent on the high seas and in the foreign terrain of the new world, a memory of the sun forever imprinted upon his skin. 

He notices the way the older man scrunches his nose sometimes as he sleeps, the fluttering of his flimsy shirt as he takes pained breaths. One day, he notices Riario looking at him through half-lidded eyes as he sketches. When he later asks to see what Leonardo was drawing, the artist shows him, tentatively. Riario gives a soft smile when he sees, murmuring that the picture does him too much justice. Leonardo remarks that his art cannot even begin to truly capture him.

-

They feel drawn together since the time they spent searching for the Book. Their minds, similar yet different, feel forever interlocked, as are their destinies. 

The slow healing of his leg confines Riario to the small cabin in the ship, unable to move without a great deal of help. He instead forgoes the aid, preferring to let others go about their own duties and not be weighed down by him, an unnecessary anchor aboard a ship that already has all too many. On occasion, he goes abovedeck with the combined help of Leonardo and Zoroaster’s strength. More often than not, however, he stays in his area. 

The long days draw themselves out, the expanse of time seeming almost as large as that of the ocean. Leonardo’s company becomes more frequent, and the two amicably talk from dusk until dawn. The artist brings him stories, filling the hours with fascinating anecdotes about his escapades in Florence, medical knowledge, theories, ideas for inventions. Riario develops a new view of the man who had previously obstructed his path, coming to appreciate him and all of his quirks.

When he finds himself longing for Leonardo as the artist attends other duties aboard the ship, Riario tells himself it is because the other man is the only thing to fill the hours of boredom. He knows it is a lie.

-

As his strength returns, Riario occasionally stands, aided by Leonardo, and hobbles around the room. His leg is still splinted and swollen, mottled by disgusting bruises and and the jagged surface of the slowly healing skin his bone had sliced through. 

The artist smiles at him one day, commenting on something as he helps the other man stand up, arm slung around his shoulder and other hand grabbing around his waist to steady him; Riario doesn’t quite hear the words, however, instead focused intently on Leonardo’s face- his hair, longer than it had been and pulled back in a loose ponytail, the way his smile reaches his eyes and gives him a look of genuine happiness. 

He knows he’s fallen.

Reaching a hand up, shaking and unsteady on his feet, the older man lightly caresses the artist’s cheek, as Leonardo had done to him so many weeks ago on their second night upon the ship, grounding him from the pain and becoming a constant. Leonardo freezes up, pausing in the middle of his speech, and locking eyes with Riario.

The Count inhales shakily and seizes the moment, hands bunched in the artist’s shirt to steady himself as he softly kisses Leonardo. The other man reciprocates, and the two stand in the embrace for what feels like an eternity, lips moving against eachother and emotions flowing between them.

They only break when the ship tilts and Riario tilts with it, still unsteady and leaning heavily on one leg. Leonardo catches him, a breathy laugh escaping his lips, and pulls the other man to his chest in order to help guide him back to the makeshift bed. 

After he settles back down, Riario laces his fingers with Leonardo’s. “Please,” he murmurs quietly, and the artist lays next to him. Fingers and fates intertwined, they drift off to sleep together.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by riario's injury during 2.08


End file.
